


Give My Hands Their One True Purpose

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/M, Future Fic, Show-based
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 07:16:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11846616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: He wears his hair cropped short and close to his head, a style completely unlike the shaggy length favored by the men of the North. Sansa delights in touching it, in letting the pleasing bristle of it sift through her fingers. She loves to leave it mussed and untidy; it makes him look so boyishly handsome that the remnants of her young girl’s heart throbs as it once had for a boy who was entirely unworthy.





	Give My Hands Their One True Purpose

He’s different, her husband, than the men Sansa has known, and nothing could please her more.

Not in all ways, to be sure. Dickon is, after all, a man, and not some mythical creature. His body is thick with muscle and hard with use, which makes him a splendid picture of a man, but not so unlike any other. He trains with his men, hunts with his hounds; to the eyes of others he would seem little different than most men.

They don’t know him as Sansa does. They don’t see his differences, big and small and in between. Sansa’s found an unexpected pleasure in learning each one, as if they were secrets slowly being revealed to her in some enjoyable game. He’s a kind man, surpassingly gentle for all his strength which makes him a rarity in her world. His honor is much like that of her brothers, and her father before them, and of precious few others Sansa has known. The first time she’d told him of all she endured in King’s Landing, he’d balled his fists in fury, yet still touched her hair so softly it could have been spun from gossamer. The first time she’d told him of all she endured with Ramsay, he’d wept, making her want to weep herself that he should feel her pain so deeply. She’d soothed him with his head at her breast, until he’d unlaced her bodice with trembling, careful fingers and had his head at her breast in an entirely different manner, one far less maternal than before, his hair bristling between her suddenly grasping fingers as she urged him on.

She teases him fondly, gently, saying that he came to their marriage a maiden, but she’d been glad of his inexperience. For all that they were wed, they’d shared something akin to a courtship, trading dreamy kisses for days before she felt safe enough to touch and be touched, to taste and be tasted, and longer still for her to be ready to feel him inside her. He’d been afraid he might hurt her, rather than enamored with the possibility, and had taken every direction readily and eagerly. In a way, she had felt everything anew through him, sweet and shy and eager, as she’d dreamed it would be when she was a girl and imagined lying with her husband. As it should have been for her. With Dickon, she feels nearly a maid again. She’s a woman thrice wed, yet he is the first man she’s kissed of her own volition, the only man she’s touched in desire. 

He wears his hair cropped short and close to his head, a style completely unlike the shaggy length favored by the men of the North. Sansa delights in touching it, in letting the pleasing bristle of it sift through her fingers. She loves to leave it mussed and untidy; it makes him look so boyishly handsome that the remnants of her young girl’s heart throbs as it once had for a boy who was entirely unworthy. Dickon submits himself to her ministrations with boundless patience, resting his head in her lap or at her breast whenever she wishes to indulge herself in the simple joys of touching him so. She’s learned that when she wants his patience to turn to desire, she need only let her fingers play about his ears and nape for his body to grow alert and a rumble sound low in his chest.

“Perhaps I should grow my hair out long,” he says one afternoon. She’s spirited him away from house duties to the meadow with a packed meal that he’d ignored in favor getting his head under her skirts instead, supping at her so long and thoroughly that she’d finally clutched his head with both hands to push him away. He lies atop her now, his weight soothing the throb between her legs, his breath feathering at her throat as she toys with the very hair he’d spoken of.

“Mm,” she hums. “Why might you do that?”

“You seem to like touching it,” he says, sounding almost sheepish. “I keep it this short for armor, not to feel good for my wife’s soft hands.” That he would change himself to suit her is yet another difference, one she treasures more than most even though she has no wish for him to do so.

“I rather prefer it how it is,” she tells him, trusting him to know that she speaks of more than the length of his hair.


End file.
